


Tear Down The Stars

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Small Dorian Pavus Cameo, Tevinter Is Terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-04-29 02:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: Thorold Tethras is a terrible dwarf (source: the entire Ambassadoria), but he reckons he's a good person, really, and a damn sight better at Diamondback than his brother.Unfortunately none of that is any help at all when he falls head over heels for one Maevaris Tilani.Or: How To Woo A Magister's Daughter When You've Got No Idea What You're Doing Really, Help.





	Tear Down The Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CherryMilkshake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryMilkshake/gifts).



> With great thanks to Lavinia for the beta <3

“Back in Orzammar,” his father begins, and Thorold resists the urge to groan, because that will only lead to reminders about how groaning was so much better back in Orzammar, do you remember, Thorold, the way we used to groan at the words of our elders, back in Orzammar?

To which the answer is, as always, no, Father, I was all of four years old back in Orzammar at the time of The Great Tethras Fuck-Up, and frankly at the time I wasn't paying much attention to anything that wasn't shiny or shaped like a nug, ideally both. If I'd been a little older, maybe I could have taught Uncle a thing or two about match-fixing, specifically the part where you try harder not to get caught doing it.

“--his niece--” his mother says, drawing his focus sharply back to the present day.

Ah, this is where this was going. His mother's need to cling to the old ways, as if the Tethras name still had the sort of value that would make you want to marry into it. Has his opinion on this not been made clear enough? “No.”

“Thorold, this is becoming a problem--”

“I'll tell you what _is_ a problem. My new masseuse is a problem. He keeps trying to coat me in scented oils even though he's been _told_. What is it with humans and smelling like sandalwood? It's a tree! Who wants to smell like a tree, especially one associated with footwear? It's nonsense. Goodness, is that the time? I'm probably due to attend a party.”

“Thorold--” his father tries, but Thorold has already pulled across the box with his stack of mail and found six separate party invitations. It pays to be the funny dwarf. One-nug, two-nug, three-nug, four-- Magister Abraxis it is, then.

* * *

Magister Abraxis has an unfortunate, weedy little moustache and even more unfortunate opinions about golems, which he would like to inflict on Thorold even though Thorold doesn't know a damn thing about golems and doesn't want to, since he hasn't figured out a way to make money off them yet.

There are multiple ways to make money off Magister Abraxis and his fascination with Quaint Dwarven Customs, though, so he puts up with it. Luckily the man also likes the sound of his voice far too much to realise that Thorold is nodding along while eyeing up the gorgeous blonde in the blue dress on the other side of the room.

He loves tall women. Best thing about going to mage parties. He's never actually gotten past some light flirting at one of these things, granted, since he does have a rule he calls Self Respect Is A Cockblock, which involves not bedding anyone who makes a comment about dwarves that's ignorant, racist, or both within the first five minutes of being introduced to him.

So far, not a single mage in Minrathous has made it past approximately minute three, but ah well.

Magister Abraxis introduces him to some niece or cousin or whoever, who titters and asks about his chest hair (fifteen seconds, good going, sweetheart), and when he manages to extract himself from that the blonde is gone.

At least the wine is better than in the Ambassadoria parties. He takes a glass and ambles towards one of the balconies overlooking the garden. He likes a nice bit of open space and a view, and chances are there won't be too many would-be scholars of 'dwarven customs' out that way. The Magister set, as a whole, tend to avoid balconies. Afraid of being thrown off them or something.

Five minutes. He'll give himself five minutes of fresh air and no mages, and then he'll see about cornering whichever one of the Tituses is least drunk and explaining to them the benefits of running their lyrium business through someone who isn't actually afraid of the sky.

He only gets two before he's interrupted. “Thorold Tethras?”

It's the blonde, so he decides not to mind too much. “That I am.”

“You make yourself difficult to find, you know.”

“You seem to have managed just fine.” Thorold points out. “May I know how to address my discoverer?”

“Maevaris Tilani.”

The name is vaguely familiar for some reason. “Athanir's daughter?” He quite likes Magister Athanir Tilani. He asks dumb questions but with genuine enthusiasm, and also is quite terrible at bargaining which is rather a boon to Thorold's bottom line. There was some scandal or other with the daughter, wasn't there? Who can pay attention to what the Magisters think is scandalous, their priorities are so screwed it makes Orzammar look level-headed and _they_ would have exiled a nug if it had spent too long eating scraps from the Tethras table. As long as he knows who is currently feuding with who, he's never cared why. Probably it has to do with sex, or blood magic, or table etiquette, or something.

“I should hope you know my name; I've been trying for a month to arrange a moment of your time to discuss this ludicrous agreement you have with my father.”

Ah, that's the reason the name is vaguely familiar. It's been attached to those letters about _renegotiation_ he's been dodging like one of his mother's good friends' single daughters. “I think the word you're looking for is _legal_. As in, an entirely legal agreement signed in good faith.”

“If you're not willing to negotiate, I can always tear the contract up and take the Tilani business elsewhere.”

“Wouldn't tear it up before reading it. There's a break clause in there you're not going to like when I'm done explaining it to you.”

She does not look intimidated by this in the slightest. “One which is not even remotely enforceable, especially if our business gets shifted to one of the more traditional dwarven Houses. Apparently, quite a few factions in the Ambassadoria aren't entirely fond of upstart surfacers, no matter how noble their bloodline might once have been.”

Fuck, he loves a woman who does her homework. “Fine, let's do this. Your office or mine?”

* * *

When he stumbles home that night, drunk on wine and what he thinks is either love or a very particular sort of sexual arousal focused on the way Maevaris Tilani smiles before she quotes from an obscure Ambassadoria protocol and ruins his entire line of argument, he goes to find Myla first.

His sister in law is the only family member he can talk to about this, as she quite approves of his continued attempts to dodge marriage, if only because she knows it means more inheritance for her son. Practical woman, Myla. Far too good for his brother, to be honest. She at least deserves somebody who can play a decent game of Diamondback.

Luckily, she's also an early riser, or at least the kid is, so he can find her when he gets home, having not actually slept yet because he has _priorities_.

“She utterly destroyed me, Myla. I'm in love.”

Myla looks very skeptical. “Do you have any idea how to go about wooing a Magister's daughter?”

“Of course not, but how hard could it be? Magisters do it all the time, and most of them can't take the cork out of a bottle of wine without three slaves to do the heavy lifting.”

Myla's look of scepticism does not decrease by one iota. “Look up flowers, perhaps. Later in the morning, after you've slept. And sobered up.”

* * *

He does sleep, for a couple of hours at least. Can't manage more than that, when he knows he has Things To Do, and the top of his list is Figure Out How The Fuck To Woo Maevaris Tilani.

He does start with Myla's suggestion, but only makes it twenty pages into _The Abbreviated Guide To The Language Of Flowers_ before giving up. The only thing less abbreviated is one of his father's lectures. Surely there's an easier way to figure out which ones are the right colour and not poisonous or... sneezy.

Right, screw flowers.

He considers, very momentarily, referencing one of his cousin's books. This is a very momentary and passing impulse which probably says a lot about how desperate he is for some sort of guidance right now.

Eh, he'll just make it all up as he goes along. What's the worst that could happen? She's a Magister's daughter, not a trapped puzzle-box that will blow up in his face if he gets it wrong. Granted, she might set him on fire if he oversteps, but he feels like maybe that's a risk he's willing to take.

And now he's given himself a brilliant plan. Making it up as he goes along: guaranteed success.

* * *

_Dear Thorold,_

_What a fascinating gift! In future you might put some note on the outside, as in the process of determining it was not, in fact, some sort of assassination attempt I am afraid your little puzzle box sustained some damage. Apologies._

_You have, however, intrigued me sufficiently to accept your invitation to dinner. Please send the exact details of the location back with my man upon receiving this note, as that part of the invitation was rather singed. Again, note explaining yourself on the **outside** next time._

_Maevaris Tilani._

__

* * *

He wants to impress, so naturally he arranges for one of the better tables at Vaska's, and he only has to call in a couple of favours to do it on short notice.

Vaska's is certainly the sort of place you take people to in order to impress them, although it isn't until they get there that Thorold remembers that when he says _people_ he means _other dwarves_ , and normally his technique for dealing with mages involves letting them impress him and then looking very impressed. Mages adore people being impressed by them.

Maevaris Tilani does not do anything to indicate whether or not she is impressed by her surroundings, containing some of the finest examples of dwarven architecture not safely in Orzammar or, you know, overrun with fucking darkspawn somewhere. She folds herself elegantly into a chair originally intended for someone with a lot less _leg_ , and orders, after the briefest discussion with the waiter, an extravagantly expensive bottle of red wine for which Thorold imagines he will be paying. Payback for overcharging the Tilani accounts for lyrium, he supposes.

A terrible thought occurs to him. “Right now is probably too late to ask whether or not you eat nug, isn't it.”

She looks amused, more than anything else. “What do you plan to do if my answer is no?”

“Recommend the lamb. Possibly cry a little inside.” Thorold replies, although he doesn't actually know if they serve lamb. Could be chicken.

“I have no objections to nug. Why did you ask me to dinner?”

“You're very direct, aren't you.” Like a dagger to the heart. Couldn't she give a man a chance to stow some cards up his sleeve before she had him lay them on the table?

“You're not answering the question.”

Apparently not. “You're beautiful, and you frighten me a little, and apparently the combination really works for me.” Thorold tells her, entirely honestly. “Besides, my mother has been suggesting I take a nice girl to Vaska's for years, she's going to die when she finds out exactly how I took her advice.”

“Ah.” Maevaris Tilani says, and suddenly the temperature around them seems to drop a notch. “I am here to provide you with a touch of scandal, then.”

Given that he half suspects she accepted his offer for a similar reason, Thorold isn't entirely sure what he's done to offend. “ _Here_ for scandal, yes. Bringing a human woman to Vaska's is an innately scandalous act. If that's all I wanted, any girl would do. _You_ in particular, because I can actually talk to you without wanting to fake my own death to escape the conversation.” Talking to mages when you care about whether or not they like you is _hard_. Why did he decide to just make this up as he went along again?

She is silent for a moment, but at least the invisible frost over their table recedes a bit. “So why is bringing me here in particular so scandalous?”

Thorold doesn't even have to look; he spotted all their fellow diners as they were seated. “Just to my left is a sweet-looking young couple whose presence here, given who their fathers are, is going to do terrible, terrible things to the price of silverite over the coming month. Behind me, the lovely lady who is not accompanied by her husband is exacting a very particular sort of revenge on the in-laws she hates.” He leans forward and taps their own table. “And right here, you will see Thorold Tethras, disgraceful surfacer that he is, rubbing his Magisterial connections in the face of all and sundry, because Vaska's is where you come to be _seen_.”

Maevaris smiles at that one, thank the Ancestors. “There are a few places with similar functions in Minrathous. There's Valerius' ball coming up, for example, where all the pretty young things will be showing up arm in arm like overdressed declarations of intent.”

“Never been.” Thorold says, pulling the wine across to himself. “Valerius hates dwarves.”

“Then he _really_ should have put some exceptions on my invitation, except he always takes special care to write that I can bring anyone I like as my guest, in order to imply that I won't manage to find anyone suitable. Interested?”

“I sincerely hope you're not implying I'm _suitable_ , my lady Tilani.” Thorold says, saluting her with his glass. “I have this shirt, green silk, very elaborate axe-themed embroidery, cut lower in the front than a Carta assassin going for your hamstrings. Beard jewellery to match. Hope something like that wouldn't be considered over the top.”

She smiles in a way that makes Thorold very glad that he's not Valerius. “That sounds _perfect_.”

* * *

One of Valerius' apprentices does attempt to set his beard on fire, but as Thorold enjoys informing him, clearly he didn't know that there's a Paragon of inventing non-flammable beard wax, so joke’s on him.

Double joke, because everyone clearly believes Thorold when he tells them there's a Paragon of inventing non-flammable beard wax. It was actually a Carta assassin, he tells Maevaris later, who'd set one too many grease traps on fire to risk anything similar happening to his actual person, and they don't make Paragons out of scum like that, even if non-flammable beard wax is probably one of the greatest dwarven inventions of all time.

Making Maevaris Tilani laugh, incidentally, is sort of like seeing the sun come up. In that it's beautiful, and in that there's plenty of idiots who would say no proper dwarf would be interested in seeing such a thing.

He knows what rumour says. Shameless and disrespectful, revelling in his status as an exile. In bed with the Magisters, in more ways than one. Thorold Tethras has absolutely no intention of acting like a proper dwarf.

He wonders only this: why the fuck would he want to be one of those?

* * *

Maevaris does explain certain matters to him, a few dates later and in a less public arena. Technically he's already heard several variants of the story from assorted persons eager to inform him of exactly who he's been associating with, but given how many false rumours he has personally spread in Tevinter and then heard a three times as lurid version of six months later, he hadn't taken any of them particularly seriously.

Besides, nothing he'd heard had made him feel any less in love. Shit, it's like a big old stampede of nugs up in his chest, every time she smiles at him. Can't argue with that.

Her version of events is simpler, and rings a hell of a lot truer, like a big old bell of hurt. “That's your big scandal? Magisters sure have weird priorities. It's all the lyrium. Addles you in the head.”

A half smile. “Pardon me if I'm misremembering, but didn't your entire family get exiled because your uncle cheated on a bet?”

“My uncle dishonored a deeply important dwarven tradition of hitting each other with sharp pointy things to see who our Ancestors like best, and technically there wasn't any gambling involved, just politics. Which is sometimes like gambling, granted, what with all the bluffing and stabbings.” He takes a pause to think about where he was going with this one. “I appear to have lost my point.”

“Deeply important dwarven traditions?” Maevaris suggests.

“Fuck 'em. Give me the honour of Orzammar and half a dozen pounds of copper and I'd have six-pounds of copper. Which unless you're in the market for a new cooking pot is worth bugger all.” Oh, right, that was going to be his point. Nothing to do with kitchen wares. More to do with the truth. “I like you. Which is a very strange departure from my normal practice of tolerating humans as long as the association remains profitable, so forgive me if I'm a little awkward about it at times. Never really been in love before.”

For once, Maevaris Tilani is entirely speechless. He hopes that's a good thing.

“You don't need to answer right away.” he tells her. “Let's ruin a few more parties together, see where this thing goes. Deal?”

She answers him by leaning down for a kiss.

Honestly, this woman's going to be the death of him, but what a way to go.

* * *

The real answer comes like this: another night, the gardens in the Tilani estate, the sky bright above, clear and cold.

He looks up, reaches out. Watches the stars twinkle faint and bright between his fingers. “It was night when we left Orzammar, you know. It's supposed to make the transition easier, or so they say. My father had told me about stars, so that was exciting.”

“How were they? Your first stars.”

“It was cloudy.” Thorold tells her. “And then it started to rain, which is a habit the sky has that I've always disliked. It was a couple of days before I got a clear night to see them properly.”

Maevaris smiles. “And the sight inspired you in some grand way, I suppose?”

“Nah, it was kind of a let-down.” Thorold shrugs. “These tiny pinpricks of light in the middle of all the dark, not managing to do a damn thing about the night, like the world's most depressing metaphor.”

She laughs. “We will have to endeavour to find you some better stars.”

He could ask for no better opening. “Way ahead of you, my sweet.” With a flourish he learnt from Tevene theatre, he produces a star-sapphire necklace. “I sincerely hope you appreciate that it took me two good bottles of whisky and a great deal of arguing to con this out of the seller at a reasonable price.” To be honest, the price was only semi-reasonable in the end, but the moment he'd seen it he couldn't imagine walking away empty-handed. He'd join the dead caste before he'd admit that, though. She'd never let him hear the end of it.

“My hero.” Maevaris says dryly, and settles herself on one of the new bits of garden furniture, some of that shimmery enchanted bollocks that's all fashionable among the mages lately. Thorold doesn't see the point, but it does suit her, he supposes. The necklace she's got on is plain gold, flimsy human design, and he fumbles with the clasp before getting it off. Dares a kiss to the nape of her neck before putting his gift in its proper place.

Her fingers rest on it for a moment. “I love you, you fool. Do you know that?”

“I'd pretty much figured it out.” He lies, over the mad hammering of his heart. How much would it cost, he idly wonders, to hire one of those criers to circle the Ambassadoria declaring his love. “My feelings, I believe, have been made entirely clear.”

“You could come here and make them a little clearer.” Maevaris suggests, which--yes, she has the absolute best ideas, obviously he should just always do whatever she says.

As it turns out, fashionable garden furniture is not entirely comfortable and it's possible for an enchantment to be _itchy_ , but he's still not complaining.

* * *

They have a little time to just be. Not long, all in all.

Then, of course, everything goes to shit.

Magister Tilani was a nice enough idiot, and he never in a thousand years deserved this, but it's Maevaris he has to think of now. Maevaris whose grief has hardened, anger as glittering and dangerous as a fresh-forged blade.

“A motion has been put forward to confiscate my father's estate. My inheritance.” Maevaris says. “They'll try to take everything.”

She's so beautiful when she's mad, but now is probably not the time to point that out. “Well, we can't have that. I like this house. I like this bed. I have some very fond memories of this bed.”

Maevaris raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that so?”

“Oh, yes. You're in some of them. The rest it's just me and the bed.” He stretches, cracks his knuckles. “Right, so who are we taking on, other than _everyone_?”

“You bloody fool.” she says, but bends to give him a kiss. A benediction. “Promise me you won't die.”

“I promise.” he says.

At least, he's going to try his darndest.

There's never any ceremony to the thing, in any way the Chantry or the Ambassadoria would recognise. Thorold has a bit of legal paperwork drawn up and scrutinised by an appropriately sharp-eyed acquaintance to make sure he hasn't missed anything, and then they throw a party. There's some like-minded friends, some good drink, and that young fool mage-boy Maevaris has taken a liking to looking slightly out of place and attempting to pretend he's not eyeing up all the most muscular of Thorold's friends.

They can't afford to take too long for celebrations. There's work to do.

* * *

How do you go about wooing a Magister? Well, in Thorold's experience, making it up as he goes along has worked just fine. Maybe it's just spite, in the end. That neither of them have much patience for being told they can't do something just because tradition says so-- and what's that? The words of dead men, and for the most part they aren't going to come back and complain.

For the most part, anyway, Tevinter being what it is and all.

You tell me I don't deserve the Stone? Well, then, I'd better claim the whole sky, and the brightest star in it. You want to tell my wife she can't have what's hers? We'll take it back, and your share too, while we're at it.

And all the time he knows, and he thinks she knows too, that they're burning through everything they've got to do it. Every victory with it's own cost, and it's worth it, it's absolutely bloody worth it _but_...

Run your lanterns too bright and all too soon you'll be alone down in the dark. There'll come a day when he can't keep his promise.

* * *

His mother talks a lot of nonsense about the Stone-sense, but when he wakes that morning he feels something, like a tremor under the earth. Maevaris has been gone one day, will be absent two more. Perhaps it's just common sense, that it would be now.

He heads downstairs first. Ripe fruit for breakfast and, after a moment's thought, a glass of brandy. Why not. Slumped along the length of their best chaise-lounge, The Terrible Child, wearing last night's eyeliner and some light facial bruising, glares at him as if daring him to comment on his presence. He's holding a book of poetry Maevaris acquired for him recently as a sort of joke, as it was written by a Paragon who really ought to have stuck to innovations in the field of armour design.

Any other day, Thorold would let him be, but he really can't be here now. The boy is still well-connected, despite having managed to both destroy his relationship with his own family and with the usually mild-mannered Gereon Alexius, and the chances that his upstairs visitors will want to involve him are low, but his darling does have such _opinions_ on Thorold gambling.

Also, the boy has not yet learned to keep his nose out of other people's fights. “Maevaris isn't here, kid.”

“Dwarven poetry is terribly dull.” The Terrible Child informs him.

Thorold circles to see which one he's reading. Can't really argue with his analysis, but that doesn't mean he can't have a little fun with it. The Terrible Child is not very good at spotting when Thorold is lying to him. “Oh, you didn't spot the metaphor there? Thought you were _sexually adventurous_.”

The Terrible Child frowns down at the book. “This is about _rocks_.”

“I'll explain it to you when you're older.” Thorold informs him. “Run along now, I have work to do. You can keep the book if you like. Come back when you've figured it out.”

The boy glares at him again. Or possibly he's just squinting, because Thorold is standing in front of a window and he doubts the kid is much in favour of sunlight right now. Thankfully, he is either sufficiently hungover or still sufficiently drunk that he doesn't question Thorold's reasons for wanting to hurry him out of the house, although he does slouch dramatically off, looking entirely put-upon. He takes the book with him. Kid's going to be mad when he figures it out.

He finishes his fruit, sweet and soft and good. “I'm going up to my office. Keep everyone downstairs.” he tells the house steward. “I am not to be disturbed, understand?”

Back to the bedroom, first. The green shirt Maevaris always liked best, even if the embroidery itches a little. A little oil for his beard. Got to look his best, after all.

I'm sorry, my love. I think today might be the day I break my promise.

Upstairs. His little office with the lovely view and the balcony. A footstep behind him. “I believe this is the part of the dance where I try offering you a very large bribe.” This has worked before, but when there is no answer he turns around to see a blank look and a brand across the man's forehead. He really hates making competent enemies. “Perhaps not.” Knives, then.

If there had been only one assassin, that plan probably would have worked out better.

His last thought is this: _You stupid bastards. You're going to make her angry._


End file.
